


(love me) even when my lies ain't white

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode: s02e05 A Hen in the Wolf House, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Secrets have a way of coming out.





	(love me) even when my lies ain't white

**Author's Note:**

> Life is rough right now and this is NOT a happy fic. Which I feel like I say a lot these days. Did I ever write happy fics?
> 
> Oh, well. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma wakes slowly.

She’s warm and snug, wrapped up in blankets she recognizes—after several minutes—to be Grant’s. She feels heavy, weighed down by sleep, and it seems to take her years to gather the energy to roll over, for all that the ache in her hips truly necessitates it.

“Finally awake?”

The mattress sinks under Grant’s weight as he sits, prompting Jemma to sit up as well. It’s surprisingly difficult; she nearly loses her balance and would tip right back over if not for Grant’s consideration in steadying her. Eyes still only half-open, she pats his arm in thanks.

“Yes,” she says—rasps, really; her throat is horribly dry—belatedly. “Have I been asleep long?”

“A few hours,” he says, and…really?

“I’m so sorry.” She rubs at her face, trying to shake off the stubbornly clinging remnants of sleep. “I didn’t realize I was so tired. I’ll work late tomorrow to make up for it, of course.”

Grant chuckles lowly. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, baby.”

Without any input from her, Jemma’s hands still on her face—frozen by his tone. She lowers them slowly, squinting against the bedroom’s dim light to study his face.

“I don’t?” she asks.

“In fact, I’m gonna have to forbid it,” he says, smiling tightly. “Gonna be a while before I let you back in my labs, Jem.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—” She shakes her head, trying to clear it. “I’m having some trouble waking up. Have I missed something?”

“Yeah, that’d be my fault,” Grant admits. He leans forward to grab something from the bedside table; when he straightens, she realizes it’s a syringe, which he tips her way in acknowledgement. “I gave you a sedative after you fell asleep.”

“You—what?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks. Casually, he returns the syringe to the bedside table, as though _drugging_ her is some middling, acceptable thing, something that needs no further discussion.

“Um.” She fumbles for a thought, so totally thrown by the idea of being sedated that she can’t quite get her brain in order. “I—we had sex.” An uncommon practice in the middle of the workday, but he was in a terrible mood and had her redirected to his office when she came back from lunch. “Then I…fell asleep. Why did you sedate me?”

It’s not unusual for her to doze off after sex with Grant; he’s surprisingly generous in bed, and it does tend to wear her out. Of course, usually dozing off is fine, as sex tends to happen _after_ work or on weekends. She remembers having vague worries about the need to return to the lab, but Grant assured her as she was drifting off that he wouldn’t let her sleep too long.

So much for that.

“You remember hearing a knock on the door before you passed out?” he asks.

Jemma thinks hard, but can’t draw up any such memory. She shakes her head.

“Well, I did wear you out,” Grant acknowledges, without any of the smugness that would usually accompany such a statement. “So, to catch you up: Markham dropped by to tell me about a very interesting email that was sent to the entire building while we were busy.”

He leans forward again, picks up his phone, and passes it to her.

The bottom drops out of Jemma’s stomach.

“I—I can explain this,” she says.

“Really don’t think you need to.” Grant takes the phone back, slipping it into his pocket. “You’re the mole.”

It’s hard to argue when he’s just handed her a picture of herself using one of the very flex screens he was so angry about when she returned from lunch. Still, outright _admitting_ it is—well, it’s tantamount to suicide, isn’t it?

(Or whatever the equivalent is when _brainwashing_ , not death, will be the result.)

“I—Grant—”

“Don’t. Lie,” he bites out, the mask of unconcern falling abruptly away. “You’re the mole. Yes or no.”

She swallows hard. “Yes.”

Grant nods to himself and looks away, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. When he returns said hand to the bed a moment later, he does so on the other side of her legs, leaving her half-trapped by his arm and _him_ rather closer than she’d like when he’s so visibly furious. Heart pounding, she shifts back towards the pillows.

“Grant…”

He doesn’t interrupt her this time, but she finds she has nothing to offer in her own defense. The effects of the sedative are wearing off, she thinks, but her mind is still turning far too slowly, numbed by terror and a surprising degree of guilt.

“You’ve been spying on us,” Grant says. “For SHIELD?”

“I—yes.”

“And this?” he asks. He moves closer, forcing her back until she’s trapped against the headboard, and cups her face in some mockery of intimacy. “Did SHIELD send you in to do _this_? Spread your legs for me, see if it makes me stupid enough to let intel slip?”

She closes her eyes against the sting of tears and shakes her head.

“No,” she manages. “No, it was—I wasn’t supposed to get involved with _anyone_ , let alone you. But…”

But he was charming and handsome and the head of HYDRA besides. The first time he asked her out, she accepted because she didn’t dare refuse; every time after, however, it was because she _wanted_ to, because he was compelling and she was lonely, so far from her friends and family.

Coulson would be horrified if he knew…which is why she hasn’t told him.

Suddenly, that feels like a mistake.

“But what?” Grant thumbs at her lower lip, expression inscrutable. “But you saw the chance and took it? The opportunity was too good to resist?”

“ _No_ ,” she says. “I just…I liked you.”

Even to her own ears, she sounds pathetic. She steels her spine, bracing for ridicule—but he surprises her. Though he huffs a laugh, it’s far more rueful than derisive.

“Yeah,” he says. “I liked you, too.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, face almost tender. “Which is why I’m gonna give you one chance to make this right.”

Jemma’s heart stutters in her chest. She has a bad feeling about this. “Oh?”

“You swear loyalty to me, right here, right now,” he says. “Then you tell me everything you know about SHIELD—bases, personnel, operations, whatever—and everything you’ve passed along to them about me. Do that, and I’ll forgive you.” He tips his head. “Still won’t _trust_ you, but I’ll forgive you.”

Yes. She was afraid of something like that.

It likely goes without saying that Grant _not_ forgiving her will mean punishment—terrible, painful, potentially life-ending punishment. Still, Jemma is hardly a traitor (for all that, looking him in the eye, she rather feels like one), and so she lifts her chin and prepares to meet her fate.

“No,” she says. She’s trembling, but her voice is perfectly even. She can be proud of that.

Grant sighs. “Yeah. Kinda figured you’d say that.”

With that, he stands and walks away. As he goes, Jemma is seized by the sudden, childish urge to crawl under the covers and hide, as though a few layers of fabric could protect her from whatever retaliation awaits.

But she isn’t a child. She’s a SHIELD agent.

So she slides out of bed and stands, gripping the headboard for balance when her feet—made clumsy by the sedative, no doubt—waver beneath her.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asks. It’s difficult to sound—or feel—dignified asking such a question whilst wearing nothing but a camisole and knickers, but she gives it her best.

He turns to face her with a smile. “Do? I’m not gonna do anything.” He pauses for a beat, allowing her a moment to absorb that. “To _you_.”

Terror claws at her lungs. She knows him well enough to fear that pleasant smile, to note the leashed violence in the way he leans back against the dresser—and to know that _someone_ will pay for her disloyalty. Grant is the sort of man who clings tight to his grudges, nursing them and building them and repaying every injury tenfold.

He’s not going to let this go.

“But you’re going to do something,” she says. She’s sure of it.

“Well, yeah.”

“To whom?” she presses.

“Now _that_ ,” he says, “is up to you.”

“Me?”

Still smiling, he pushes away from the dresser. The closer he gets, the more Jemma feels the need to run—but there’s nowhere to go, and she’s brought this on herself besides.

She steps forward to meet him instead.

“You.” Grant wraps his arms around her and laces his fingers at the small of her back, bringing her yet closer. His warmth surrounds her, urging her to sway into him, to take the comfort of his arms as reassurance—but that would be foolish, certainly. “See, if there’s one thing I love about SHIELD agents, it’s that pesky moral center you’ve all got. I mean, it just makes things so much _fun_.”

“What are you saying?” she asks.

“I’m saying, I’m giving you a choice. Someone’s gonna hurt for this, you’re right about that. But you get to choose who.” In any other circumstance, from any other man, she’d call the smile he gives her now _loving_. Here and from him, it only serves to chill her. “I could go after civilians—innocent, ignorant, totally uninvolved civilians—in some random city. Say…Sheffield.”

“No!”

She doesn’t mean to speak. The word tears itself out of her throat, propelled by a petrifying fear for her parents—and for everyone else in Sheffield, as she’s positive he won’t stop with them.

Grant’s smile sharpens.

“Or,” he says, clasped hands forcing her right into his chest, “I go after SHIELD.” He pauses. “I mean, I’m going after SHIELD anyway, obviously, but you’d be surprised how quickly a little focused attention can turn the tides. I probably couldn’t wipe them out entirely—you people are annoyingly persistent—but I’m sure I could get a few specific agents crossed off. How do Coulson, May, Trip, Skye, and Fitz sound?”

Jemma would swear her heart stops.

“What—how—?”

The mention of Fitz is no surprise. For good or ill, her name and his are inextricably linked, and likely will be for the rest of their lives. But Coulson is supposed to be _dead_ —and Skye wasn’t even an agent until the day before the uprising. How could Grant know to threaten them?

“Well, I have a little confession to make, baby,” he says. “See, you’re not the only one keeping secrets here. I know a _little_ more about you than I let on. Not _enough_ , clearly—I really had no idea you were the mole—but I know all about your little response team.”

“But—the records—”

“Disappeared, yeah,” he says, nodding. “Your little hacker friend’s work, I’m sure. Unfortunately, memories can’t be wiped quite as easily as records can…although it’d be useful if they could. I should look into that.”

He drifts off, apparently distracted by thoughts of the mayhem he could cause with memory-altering technology, and Jemma takes advantage of the opportunity to shove away from him. His hold on her breaks (she doesn’t fool herself; it’s only because he allows it) and she backs away, putting a good two feet of space between them.

Grant watches her retreat with a patient smile. “Sorry, got a little off track there. My point was, just because evidence of your team was removed from the Internet doesn’t mean people forget it existed.” He shrugs. “Of course, I did have an inside source.”

“You did?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says. “My mentor was John Garrett. Better known as…”

“The Clairvoyant,” she breathes. “I—I had no idea.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t,” he says. “We kept it on the down low, didn’t want anyone knowing they could get to me through him.” He turns away and wanders back to the dresser, toying with the dish of loose change beneath the mirror. “He had a lot to say about you, that last year. He wanted you for that Centipede project of his—was sure you could crack it, if only he could divorce you from your morals long enough to get you to cooperate. When you showed up here, I figured some of those inroads he made took, got you to see the light.”

He stops, shaking his head with a rueful laugh.

“Guess not.”

Jemma’s mind races. What else might Garrett have told Grant about their team? Does he know about Skye’s 084 status? About Audrey? An attack on her worked once to draw Coulson out; it would certainly work again. If Grant decides to go after him…

She swallows.

Fitz she can trust is safe. He’s not well enough to go into the field, not after the bullet he took at the Hub. He’s still relearning to walk—and though his wheelchair is functional enough, it would still be far too great a risk to send him into any situation in which he might have cause to flee. He’ll be kept at the Playground for months yet.

The rest of her team, though?

SHIELD is short-staffed. They don’t have many options these days—and Skye, Jemma knows, has moved past training and into real missions with May. They’re frequently out of the Playground, investigating this lead or that, chasing 084s and HYDRA cells.

They’re vulnerable. If Grant starts gunning for them specifically…

“Anyway!” Grant claps his hands, startling Jemma out of her thoughts. “Kinda wandered from the point there, didn’t we? So, bottom line: I can wipe an entire town—possibly, but not definitely, the one your parents live in—off the map… _or_ I can hunt down, torture, and eventually kill all your nearest and dearest SHIELD agents. Your choice.”

“No,” Jemma says. And then again, with more force, “ _No_. I’m the one who betrayed you. If you’re going to hurt anyone, it should be me.”

It’s easier said than meant. There’s a current of pure terror running through her, making her tremble; she’s an imaginative person, and she can guess what torments will await her should Grant turn his wrath in her direction. She didn’t only betray his organization, she betrayed _him_ , in an intimate, personal way.

Death will be a mercy, she suspects, by the time he’s done with her.

But for all her fear, she refuses to paint a target on anyone else. Sheffield won’t suffer and neither will her team, not if she has anything to say about it. No one else should have to die for her mistakes.

“Maybe it should,” Grant agrees. He closes the distance between them in a few quick steps, and this time she can’t stop herself from backing away. Before she knows it, she’s trapped against the wall, his arms caging her in on either side. “But I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re mine. This doesn’t change that.”

Jemma swallows. There’s too much meaning hiding there, a threat she doesn’t dare unpack. “I’m not going to choose.”

“Yeah, you are.” He tips her chin up and kisses her, soft and somehow threatening. Her nails dig into her palms as she fights back the urge to—what? Hit him? Run? Kiss him back? “But you need time to think it over. I understand.”

He kisses her again—once, twice, until habit takes over and she kisses him back, lets herself pretend that none of this is happening, that it’s just another assignation at the end of a long day and that no one she loves is in danger.

Only when she’s breathless, body thrumming and senses overwhelmed by him, does he break the final kiss.

“I’ll give you some time to think,” he says, patting her cheek. “In the meantime, I’d advise you not to try to leave this floor. You won’t like the consequences.”

Jemma thinks, a touch hysterically, that if Grant were any sort of _decent_ tormentor/captor/betrayed lover, he would leave at this point. Instead, he only goes over to sit on the bed, leaning back against the pillows and stretching his legs out in front of him. He even takes out his phone and begins tapping away at the screen, giving every indication of ignoring her.

It falls to her, then, to remove herself—but she doesn’t doubt his word that she’d regret trying to leave the floor (and thus, his quarters). Her only option is a more localized retreat, and so she flees to the bathroom.

Once there, with the door locked behind her and the corners checked for threats—then, and only then, does she finally give in to tears.


End file.
